


Baby's First Post

by Luna_Shimizu



Category: Fringe (TV), Original Work
Genre: Gen, Poems, Short Stories, Trial run, assorted works, first posting, new user
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26439571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Shimizu/pseuds/Luna_Shimizu
Summary: I just joined Ao3 recently, and I decided that I should probably do a trial run post, get something up, see how everything works. This is a collection of random short stories (and by short, I mean *short*) and poems I've written for class or fun, posted so I can test everything out. Most of it is original stuff, but there is a fanfic buried inside. Although this is more for me to get a feel for Ao3, I do hope you enjoy reading some of this.





	1. Through Another's Eyes

I watch you as you walk through this house, your house, our house. Walking from the grey, cushioned sitting place, through the hall to the bathroom. Then back again. I used to see to the bathroom, but I’ve moved since then. You turn on the large screen, the one which has colors dance across it and makes you laugh or cry. Sometimes you sit alone on the cushion, sometimes the older one is with you. The one who spends more time here, who leaves with you in the morning but comes back alone. I watch you as you go towards the kitchen, but I can’t see you there. You must be making something to put in your mouth. You call it ‘eating’, and the orange things on your elongated silver finger—oh, no, you called it a ‘spoon’—you call ‘mac and cheese’.

I do not understand these terms, but I hear them. I know when you go to the kitchen you are making something to ‘eat’. When you go to the bathroom you usually come back, unless it’s dark outside. Then you disappear in that direction, but I don’t know where you go. You don’t go in until long after the older one has gone to sleep, and you don’t come out until long after the older one is awake. You come out from the kitchen, with objects in your hand that you will eat. I have come to know you over these long months, you and the older one.

There are also the tiny ones, the ones that act very different from either of you. You call them “kitties”. The smallest one likes to attack hanging parts. They have attacked the things that hang from me, too. Each time you seem to be unhappy, saying ‘no’. Sometimes the smallest one just stops, sometimes they go to you. The bigger one seems to be less interested in everything. They like to sit on the brown wooden ‘chair’ and lick their own body. Sometimes they’ll lay on the grey cushion with you, or with the older one. Other times they are eating. I’ve seen you carry the bigger one with you and put them on the grey sitting place. Sometimes they stay, sometimes they don’t.

I remember I used to stand by the foot covers. You would grab one of my hanging things and then one of the foot covers and the bag by the grey cushion and then leave. You do the same now, but I’m not over there anymore. The older one moved me when you were gone. I like the older one, but I don’t know how I feel about my new place. I would have liked to have been asked, but it seems you can’t understand me. I don’t communicate the way you do, with moving mouths and gesturing hands. Now I’m standing next to another hanging place, but it’s for different hanging things. There’s also a box next to me now, which the tiny ones like.  
I know when it becomes bright again, you will come out and grab your coat from me, grab your foot coverings, and leave again . . . But I also know you’ll always come back and hang your coat on me again.

It’s my purpose, as your coat rack.


	2. These Little Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fringe fanfic, Astrid and Walter spend time together.

Astrid Farnsworth didn’t go to the academy to look after an older man whose mind was often drifting off into the ether. She went to the academy to be an FBI agent. But over the years, she’s come to know Dr. Walter Bishop. When this all started, she was admittedly a little resentful. She was a fully-trained FBI agent, yet she was treated like a babysitter or an errand girl. She had to fetch this or that, make sure Walter hadn’t done anything crazy, and take care of a cow. Now, 3 years later, she still does all that, but now she doesn’t resent the assignment. They appreciate her here. Walter appreciates her. He doesn’t always show it, with his constant “Astral”, “Asterisk”, “Aster”—anything except her real name.

But she knows it, now. She can see the way he cares for her in his grey-blue eyes, in the way he felt so guilty after the Chinatown incident. And she cares about him too. He may not be the sanest person, and sometimes he can snap at people, but there was no doubt he was a genius. She’s gotten used to helping him with the autopsies and tests, is no longer as creeped or grossed out as she was in the beginning. It’s actually kind of fun now. Investigating cases, using science to solve problems and find the bad guy. Sure, Peter and Olivia were usually the ones going out in the field, but she was able to help from the lab, help Walter. It didn’t diminish the thrill of being involved in a case. Of course, she didn’t enroll for the thrill either. She wanted to make the world a better place. Her aptitude for languages was definitely a boost for her application, and it came in handy more often than you’d think on the Fringe cases.

“Asterif, why are you taking so long with the hot cocoa? Do you not know how to make hot cocoa?”

Astrid blinked away the memories she’d been thinking back on at the sound of Walter’s voice coming from the main lab. “I’m almost done, Walter. Just give me one more second.” She responded, shifting her mind back to the task at hand. She poured the hot cocoa mixture into two equal mugs and topped both with whipped cream and marshmallows, then dumped a few more marshmallows in Walter’s cup for good measure. He had quite the sweet tooth, so it wouldn’t do to only have a handful of marshmallows in his hot cocoa. She picked the mugs up carefully and walked slowly back to the main lab area. Walter looked up as she came in, the light shining off his graying, curly hair, and smiled in that childishly happy way of his, beaming in glee.

“Ahh, you put 13 marshmallows in! How did you know that was part of the Fibonacci sequence?” He asked, taking one of the mugs from her slightly straining hand.

“Uh, you mentioned it before, remember?” She fibbed, as she shifted her own mug to rest between her hands. Though, really, it would’ve been easy enough to find   
on the internet. Sometimes he forgot—or underestimated—the intelligence of others in the face of his own genius.

“Oh, of course . . .” He said softly, his expression taking on that slightly sad look he got whenever he didn’t remember something. Sometimes there would be anger there too, though at who she wasn’t sure. Himself, maybe. She felt bad, but it was too late to take it back now, and he tended to shake it off. Truthfully, she had put that number on accident. She didn’t typically count out marshmallows, but she might have to now, just to keep that grin on his face. Maybe mix it up and put some other science-y number next time.

“So, Walter,” She started, making him look back up at her, a mustache of whip cream on his upper lip making her stutter and stop before she grinned at him and gave a little laugh.

“What?” He asked innocently, his eyes a little wide. It always amazed her how he could appear so innocent and yet understand such horrors. And talk about sex without blinking an eye . . .

“Nothing, you’ve just got a bit of whip cream,” she paused, laughed again, before gesturing to her own upper lip, leading him to wipe the mentioned area, finding a swipe of whip cream on his hand. He smiled that child-like smile again as he giggled.

“Oh, I see!” He said, licking the cream from his hand. It should have been gross, but instead it was just endearing. That was Walter for you.

Astrid smiled softly at the aging scientist, happy for this moment where the two of them could just relax together and talk, joke, laugh. So much of their lives were filled with science gone wrong and people looking to create disasters. These were the moments you cherished in a life like theirs.

These little moments.


	3. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free Verse Poem

At what point do people die?

Is there a predefined moment?

Is it the second they stop breathing?

Is it the second they stop thinking?

Does anyone know?

Does anyone care?

I suppose that might not sound fair,

To say that people have no sympathy

For those who are grieving.

But when I hear words about death spoken

As if it’s all just a joke,

Sometime I have trouble breathing.

And I try not to cry.

And I try not to rage.

Please.

I have to know.

At what point do people die?

Is it when their minds have left them?

Is it when they forget the ones they loved?

Is it when they can barely think?

Barely eat?

Barely speak?

At what point do people die?

I have to know,

Because I can’t handle this despair—

This heartache I feel,

When she looks at me with uncertain eyes,

Without recognition,

Without love.

Is she gone?

Is she dead?

Without her memories,

Without her love,

Without her caring thoughts.

When she can’t remember,

Can barely think,

Can barely speak,

Is that death?

Tell me.

Please.

At what point do people die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grandma has dementia, and I've started thinking a lot about memories, death, and the like. That inspired this poem.


	4. A Myth

The sound of metal shutters rattling in the breeze seemed to echo through the quiet warehouse. Most of the openings were shut tight against the outside world, except one window high up on the eastern wall of the large storage space. The sun would shine through this window at dawn, the light from moon taking its place at dusk. The stars that were visible through the slits were often glittering. Now, the only thing filtering through the open shutters was the wind that howled outside, touching the creature inside. The breeze made the scales of the long, lithe shape ripple, like the shiver of a Human body. But this body was not Human. The skittering of claws against the metal floor became the next sound to echo through the space, as the form shifted to curl up tighter. Large wings, similar to those of a bat’s, furled and unfurled before wrapping around the shape. Glowing ice blue eyes flickered open for a moment as a long, spiked tail swept its way along the floor. The movement of the tail disturbed a pile of objects that sat nearby, causing jewelry, medals, and framed photos to scatter along the ground. It didn’t seem to rouse the blue-eyed giant. Its large chest rose and fell in a calm, dozing manner, a small puff of smoke emanating from a football-sized nostril with every other exhale.

The warehouse was thought to be abandoned, but something still slept here, still kept its things here. Not a myth, but something quite real.

Myths come from a time when people believed in magic, when it was a common occurrence. When the fairies lived inside their mushrooms, the nymphs frolicked in the woods, the hippogriffs flew in the clouds—

And dragons slept on their hoards.

After magic was deemed unnatural, and witches were being burned at the stake—well, what could the magical community do but hide? But become mere myths in the books and minds of Humanity?

This particular dragon found his home in an abandoned storage warehouse, in the city of Seattle, in the state of Washington, in the country of America. Despite what some may think, the magical community are not stupid to modern ways. They know the goings-on of the current era, they know the names of countries and states and cities and counties—they know of technology, and medicine, and even climate change.

Learning of the last one was a real bummer for everyone, especially the Nymphs. Everyone lost a little faith in Humanity at that.

He’s been here for decades, hidden away from Humanity with his hoard. His treasure. By luck or by fate, no Human has stumbled upon his lair just yet, but even if one did, he would not barbecue them and swallow their meat. His tastes lied in the direction of mindless animals—the cows and chicken and goats that Humans already butchered and devoured, themselves. He liked it here, with the water nearby and the sun shining on his scales through the window in the mornings. He liked his hoard of significant items, the things that the Humans held dear. The things that had ties to their hearts. The things that were stolen from their homes, as if by a ghost. They never knew it was him, and they wouldn’t for a long time.

After all, he was just a myth to them.


	5. The Event

_Oh God, what have I done?_

Her heart was beating an irregularly fast rhythm against her rib cage, adrenaline coursing through her veins as the _event_ played on a loop in her head. This hadn't happened to her before, ever. Usually she was so careful, so responsible. But this . . . God, this was horrible. And she couldn't forget a minute of it, even a second of it. It repeated in her mind's eye in technicolor, every detail enhanced in the replay, the sounds, the pain, the guilt. God, the guilt. She didn't think she could ever get over this. How did anyone get over something like this? Especially when she knew it was all her fault. There was no one else to blame, only her own foolishness. Her eyes were beginning to strain from staring at the beige wall across from her, her spot on the thin bed uncomfortable, but fair. She didn't want to close her eyes for fear of reliving the _event_ yet again, but she couldn't keep them open any longer, and finally her eyelids slid closed and the memories began again . . .

_Grab the glass, pick it up, down it, nod at the bartender, repeat the motions. God, what a day. What a terrible, no good, very bad day. She giggled at the reference, then a frown overcame her features yet again. She downed another shot of whiskey, barely wincing at the burn. There was no way for this day to get any worse. First, she woke up an hour after her alarm, rushing around her room to try and get some semblance of an outfit together, cursing her past self for failing to think ahead and lay out an outfit the day before. Then, getting to work an hour and a half late, only to find her manager with that_ sorry-I-ever-became-a-manager _expression she'd only ever seen directed at those he had to lay off, directed at her._

_It was hard not to tear up right then and there, but her coworkers--well, ex-coworkers now--were nice enough not to give her any pitying eyes. Her manager gave her one last paycheck and apologized a few times. She knew it wasn't his fault. He was only lower management, it was the uppers’ whose fault this was. She only gave him a tired, resigned smile and left for the day, downtrodden but not defeated. At least, not until she got home to find an eviction notice among her mail. That was her breaking point. No job, no home. What were her options? She had none. The notice wasn't even because of rent. She'd been able to pay that for a while now. But it was because they were renovating the whole complex into some sort of new housing project or whatever. No "sorry" or "we understand this is difficult", just a move it or lose it notice, and lose it she did._

_She barely got the door locked behind her and her bag to the little desk beside the door before she collapsed into tears on the sofa. She cried for a while then, just right there on her living room couch. After a while, she picked herself up, grabbed her keys from her purse, shoved her wallet and phone into her pockets, and left. She nearly forgot to lock the door, nearly didn't care. She drove herself to the nearest bar, this one, and went right up to one of the stools and started ordering her whiskey._

_Which lead to right now, downing shot after shot of this burning alcohol, poisoning herself but not caring. Anyone who approached her, male or female, found themselves met with only silence and apathy, her attention focused on getting drunk enough to forget. Forget being fired. Forget losing her home. Forget her pathetic life. Forget everything. And it was working, she could barely remember fifteen minutes ago. How many drinks had she had? Did it matter? She got up from her stool, stumbling and wobbling on her drunken feet, pulling enough money from her wallet to cover twenty shots and tucking it partially under a bowl of peanuts. She walked to the exit and to her car, even though a tiny voice in the back of her head, a voice that sounded sober, told her to get a damn cab before she got into an accident._ God, why didn't she listen? Why didn't she call a cab? _Instead she drove away from the bar, her inebriated mind not understanding the danger of driving in her condition._ And it wouldn't, until . . . Until . . .

God, what had she done?


	6. Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free Verse Poem 2

Tell me.

Why are people driven into horrible acts?

What can make a person feel such

Anger, hate, and despair,

As to attack someone innocent,

Someone uninvolved,

Someone pure.

Someone,

Anyone,

Tell me.

I need to understand.

How the world can be filled

With so much cruelty,

So much bigotry,

So much hate.

Why is it that so many people live

In poverty?

In despair?

In heartache?

While others live

With bellies full.

With glittering jewels.

And others are forced to keep

Their hearts locked away,

Their desires denied,

Their loves condemned.

The heart wants what it wants.

But what if the heart wants freedom?

Is that now too much to ask?

Is that now forbidden?

If that is too much to ask,

Then we will not ask.

We will demand.

Demand freedom.

Demand acceptance.

Demand the rights we are denied.

Because what you say is,

“What the heart wants it doesn’t deserve”,

“What the heart wants it cannot have”.

The heart wants,

We want,

Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, people kind of suck. That inspired this poem.


	7. A Rambling Fish Poem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free Verse Poem 3

Fish, fish, fish

Not much comes to mind about fish

Slimy, slippery, flopping about

Delicious, fresh, seasoned

Disgusting, rotten, dry

I suppose fish can be many things

Fish are friends, not food

But they are food to me, I

Eat them with rice

Eat them in a sandwich

Eat them breaded

Eat them filleted

Eat them raw

Sushi is delicious

Sashimi is too much for me

Have you ever cut fish?

A knife slides through the flesh easily

A sharp knife slides through most things easily

Do fish ever wonder where their friends have gone?

Do they ever look at a net in fear?

Do fish feel fear?

Is this poem rambling?

Is this a poem?

Ah well either way

I have created a poem

A poem about fish

Fish, fish, fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just me being silly. Fish!


	8. Sweet Friendship

_Humm humm hum hum da da da . . ._ The gentle melody echoed softly through the small building, a smile on the lips of the voice who hummed it. The cafe wasn't all that full that day, but Stephanie didn't mind it too much. She liked the quiet hours of the day, when the place wasn't packed, but simply quietly abuzz with soft conversation. When the smell of the pastries baking in the back would waft through the main area, unencumbered by the stifling perfumes that the evening rush would bring. When the warmth of the cafe, less in temperature and more in atmosphere, could be felt, soothing the downtrodden. She dragged her rag over the shining brown tabletop, continuing to hum her little ditty as she went. The tune differed from day to day, the notes only a reflection of her state of mind. The quiet joy in them today signified her own enjoyment of the day.

Once done wiping the tables, she slung the rag over her shoulder and turned back towards the counter. Her curly brown hair cascaded down her other shoulder, free and loose. As she walked past the cashier on duty, she gave the boy a kind smile, quickly returned. Her coworkers were nice people, she thought, and she absolutely loved working at this warm little cafe. Her sweet personality seemed well-suited, along with her flowery attire and kind brown eyes. It was almost as if the place was built for her, with its own vases of flowers and furniture in all shades of brown. _Gosh_ , she thought, standing in the back and smelling the sweet scent of fresh pastries, _is there any place better than this?_

With a clear little tinkle, the bell above the front door signaled the arrival of a new customer. There stood a young woman of shy disposition, who glanced about the bistro with sky blue eyes. Her blonde hair was half-tied and half-loose, the loose part of it flowing down her back, stopping at the curve of her spine. The sleeves of her beige sweater seemed to swallow her palms, just the tips of her fingers poking out from the bottoms. She wore a flared skirt that reached her knees, bare, mocha-colored calves between the hem and her flats. She continued to look around the place, not yet brave enough to approach the counter. Stephanie had since exited the back, and when she spotted the girl her face lit up, even brighter than the usual smile she wore.

“Jen!” She called out, rushing over to the now shyly smiling girl.

“Hey Steph . . .” She said, her head tilting down as if she wanted to avert her eyes, and yet they stayed locked on the brunette heading towards her.

“What are you doing here so early?” Stephanie questioned, her smile not faltering in the slightest as she reached her best friend. Usually Jennifer would come for Stephanie’s break, and then come again once she was done for the day. But that day she was a whole fifteen minutes early!

“I just thought I’d surprise you.” Jennifer responded, a small smile on her face. She was never one for big displays or big expressions, instead she preferred small smiles and little surprises.

Stephanie’s response was another sunshiny grin. She turned towards Aaron, who was still standing at the cash register, despite the lack of new customers at the moment. At her smile and questioning look, he nodded, making the smile grow.

“Well, I’ll take my break early today, then!” Stephanie said, grabbing her friend’s hand and pulling her along to one of the recently cleared tables. They both took a seat, but before long Stephanie jumped back up. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she ran back towards the kitchen, Jennifer watching her go with a fond smile. It wasn’t long before she returned, something wrapped in a napkin inside her pale hand. She smiled again and sat back down, placing the napkin on the table, the edges uncurling on their own, revealing a small pile of goodies.

“Did you make these?” Jennifer questioned, knowing her friend’s skill with an oven.

Stephanie nodded in response, picking up a brownie with delicately painted nails. She watched Jennifer choose an oatmeal-chocolate cookie and waited for her to take a bite. When the blonde did so, her friend watched as her eyes closed and she smiled. Stephanie took a bite of her own treat then, having the same reaction. They both had such a sweet tooth, it was a good thing Stephanie had some baking expertise.

The rest of Stephanie’s break was spent with the two of them nibbling on tasty little treats and making conversation. There was never an uncomfortable or awkward moment, not with these two. At some point they both got a drink—hot chocolate for Stephanie and a simple coffee for Jennifer. Even when they were quiet, it was comfortable.

It was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, that's all I got for now. I learned some stuff, I tried something new. Hopefully I'll be able to post something substantial soon enough (Teen Wolf, Warehouse 13, Person of Interest, Heroes . . .). For now, I hope you at least enjoyed this sample of my writing.
> 
> Stay safe!


End file.
